“I’ll send you something as soon as I write it.”
“Hurry.”
“Good night, Lacey.”
“Good night.”
Beckett sentme chapter after spectacular chapter. I devoured his words and looked forward to more. When he sent the emails with the files, he would always include a limerick. They were witty and charming and just as well-crafted as his chapters. His writing style reminded me of an author I’d read before, but I couldn’t pinpoint who. His writing was funny and smart, dark and intriguing. I couldn’t read it without making sure my door was locked and dead bolted.
Beckett had been gone five days and had sent me forty pages. When I asked him how he managed to get that much writing done while he was working, he said he thrived on being busy. He was a self-confessed workaholic. It was the only way he could have what he wanted and give his family what they expected.
His busy schedule exhausted me. I could barely stay awake past 10:00 p.m. Walking the dogs and working at the bookshop kept me on my feet all day, and when I got home, all I wanted to do was curl up on my couch with a good book.
I’d drifted off reading Beckett’s work but woke with a start when my phone rang. My chest tightened and chills broke out on my skin. I’d just finished reading a suspenseful twist in Beckett’s novel where a ringing phone prompted a murder, and my first thought was panic.
I pulled my phone from where it had fallen between the cushions of the sofa and saw Beckett’s name scroll across the screen. It was 11:30 p.m., which meant it was 4:30 a.m. in London.
I flipped the phone open. “Hello?”
“Hey, Princess.”
His voice sent a tingle of awareness down my spine. I shivered and reached for the blanket. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“I fell asleep reading. Isobel has me spooked.”
“I told you it was dark.”
Beckett’s book was about a female serial killer who would not rest until she’d taken vengeance on everyone involved in her mother’s death. She should have been terrifying, but I couldn’t help sympathizing with her.
“What time is it in London?”
“I’m not in London anymore. I’m in New York. I flew in a few hours ago.”
I heard clanging metal and recognized it as the sound of weights. Only Beckett would work out so late at night. The man lived by his own clock. “Are you in the hotel gym?” I asked.
“No,” he said over the noises in the background. “I have a place in New York.”
“I’ve never been there. What’s it like?”
“My place is in Chelsea,” he said. “It’s on the top floor of a new building. I bought it for the amazing views. I can see the Hudson River from my bedroom. It’s…” He paused. “Lonely.” His tone was resigned, mocking. “I’m used to having more people around. Summer. Pressly. Aslan—even though he’s a pain in the ass. Then there’s you.” He grew serious. “I miss you.”
A tremor of longing streaked through me. I missed him too. How was it possible to miss someone you hardly knew? I pictured Beckett in his Chelsea apartment—his hair damp, a towel around his neck, and quirky socks on his feet.
“I called because I want you to come away with me this weekend. We can leave Saturday morning. It’s nice in Florida this time of year; let’s go to Littlecloud.”
Every part of me wanted to say yes. My heart and head were in agreement, but I couldn’t do this weekend. “I can’t. I have plans.”
Beckett was quiet, and I knew he wasn’t used to being rejected. “I see.” Metal clanged in the background. “Do you have a hot date?”
He didn’t sound happy about the prospect. I considered letting him think I was going on a hot date for about a hot second before admitting the truth. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I have plans for Sunday at Hyperbole’s.” Even though Beckett had overshadowed everything lately, I’d had this date on my mind for nearly a month. “Miranda Lockhart is coming.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry. I have to meet her. She’s my favorite—”
“I know,” he said. “She’s your favorite author. I wouldn’t ask you to miss meeting her. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
